She felt the fear rising in her throat. She had to stay strong whatever happened, for Gaston’s sake as well as her own. If there was any chance that he was still alive and that they might release him, then she had to do whatever it took. If they thought she was merely the lover of someone who happened to be in the Resistance, an innocent bystander, she might be all right. But if they went over the flat thoroughly—tore it apart—then they would certainly find the radio. She didn’t think they would find the codebook. The pages were carefully inserted into a cheap novel, placed among other novels on a shelf. But the radio itself would be enough. They would take her back to Gestapo headquarters and attempt to break her. And only the fact that they wanted her alive for a particular mission would be her one trump card. She had to make them think that she would do their bidding.
There was the slightest chance that word would reach the right people about her fate. The small stamped, addressed envelope had been easy enough to slip in among the vegetables she took down to the concierge. She was sure Madame Armande hadn’t noticed as she put turnips and onions into a basket with the letter already lying at the bottom of it, written in pencil, Please mail this for me. The old concierge hated the Germans passionately and had watched with pity as Margot was taken away, so there was a chance the letter would be mailed. There was also a chance that the address was no longer a safe house for communication. Nothing was certain these days.
Madame Armande stretched luxuriantly, removed her sleep mask, and said, “Bonjour, ma petite,” as if it were any normal morning. “Do you wish to bathe first while I order breakfast?”
Margot took the chance, enjoying the hot water and sweet-smelling soaps. When she came out, Gigi Armande was on the telephone. She was laughing. “You are such a naughty boy,” she said. “Until later, then.” And she put the phone down.
She smiled and looked up at Margot. “Breakfast will be here shortly. They make the most marvellous croissants.”
Margot plucked up her courage as she went toward the balcony and stared out the windows. “Madame, I know this might seem impertinent, but why do the Germans let you stay on here in your old suite when the rest of the hotel is reserved for their officers?”
Madame Armande looked at her and laughed. “It is simple. I design lovely clothes for their wives, and I know everybody in Paris. I am useful to them. So they allow me to exist.”
Margot was sure that wasn’t the entire answer, but she said no more. She had just finished several croissants with real butter and real jam, not to mention real coffee, when there was a tap at the door.
Madame Armande called “Entrez” and in walked Herr Dinkslager, the Gestapo officer from the previous day.
“Good morning, good morning,” he said heartily. “What a beautiful day, is it not? The sort of day to be out and about and go for a ride in the Bois de Boulogne. I trust you slept well, my lady?”
“I did. Thank you.”
“I must apologise for the primitive nature of the bed.” He pointed at the foldaway bed that had been wheeled in for Margot. “It was the best we could do at such short notice.”
“There was no problem with the bed, mein Herr,” she said politely.
“Please take a seat.” He indicated the gilt-and-brocade side chair. Margot sat. The German pulled up a chair and sat looking at Margot. Madame Armande remained quietly in the background. “So the question is, what do we do with you now?” He paused. “I have colleagues who are dying to get their hands on you and make you talk, but I myself am a civilised sort of man. I believe we can communicate aristocrat to aristocrat.” He gave her a friendly smile.
Margot said nothing.
“I’m sure you must hate this stupid war as much as I do,” he said.
“We didn’t start it,” Margot replied evenly.
“Of course not. But you must realise that Hitler thinks highly of the British. We are two Aryan peoples, the cream of civilisation. We should be cooperating, not fighting. The Führer would like nothing better than to make peace with England, and I know this sentiment is shared with many of your people. If you could help to bring about this peace, wouldn’t you want to do so?”
“By peace do you mean capitulation? German occupation?”
“A benevolent occupation.”
“Is there such a thing?” she asked. “I heard about your benevolent occupation of Denmark and Norway.”
“We must crush those who are foolish enough to resist,” he replied easily. “But I’m sure you are wise enough to want to spare further English lives and cathedrals and stately homes like yours. What a terrible pity if your great heritage were to be reduced to rubble.”
“What is it you want me to do?” she asked suddenly.
He stared at her long and hard. “There are those in your country who are in sympathy with our cause, who would welcome their German brothers with open arms. You would meet up with them and assist in their plans.”
“Plans?”
“To remove those who stand in the way of peace, of course.”
Margot stared out the window. Pigeons were sitting on the edge of the balcony. Beyond them, white clouds scudded across a blue sky.
“And Gaston de Varennes?” she asked. “Part of the bargain would be to release him? To have him safely transported to a neutral country?”
Herr Dinkslager tipped his chair back, as if contemplating. “Ah, yes. The French lover. His devoted mistress who would do anything to save him.”
“I need to know if he is still alive,” Margot said.
“Still alive but being most uncooperative,” he replied. “We believe he can give us a great deal of information on the workings of the Resistance. But so far he has remained silent, in spite of all attempts.” He looked up at her, his light-blue eyes holding hers. “You see, this puts me in a difficult position, Lady Margaret. We need this information. And trust me, we will get it somehow. My superior officers are never going to agree to release him unless he tells us what he knows. So you could help his cause . . .” He paused and rocked his chair again. Margot focused on his highly polished boots, which reflected the light from the windows.
“You don’t think that I could persuade him to talk?” In spite of her fear, she laughed. “I think you underestimate Gaston de Varennes. He is a very proud man. A very independent man.”
He rocked his chair forward suddenly, bringing his face close to hers. “You must see that things could not go well for you if you don’t cooperate, my dear. You lived with a leading member of the Resistance movement. He must have told you things, even small hints, things that he let slip. I could have you tortured or shot with one click of my fingers right now for aiding and abetting an enemy fighter.”
“But, apparently, I’m worth more to you alive than dead?” she said, sounding calmer than she felt.
The ghost of a smile crossed his face.
“You could be useful to us, that is true. But I should have no qualms in ordering your execution if you are not willing to cooperate.”
“But I’ve told you before, he shared no information with me.” Her voice had risen now, even though she fought to keep it even. “Not even that he was working with the Resistance. I have hardly seen him for months, and if we were together, then talk was the last thing on our minds.”
She heard Gigi Armande give a little snorting laugh as if she appreciated this touch of wit.
“But you suspected . . .” Herr Dinkslager asked.
“Yes, I suspected. But that’s all. He told me nothing. No names, no plans, nothing. He wanted to make sure I was safe, I suspect. That I could answer with absolute honesty should such a situation as this arise.”